Ironic Response

Today I found out that my submission to the university literary journal was rejected. More than that, it was rejected without a discussion. And I am absolutely elated.

Of course, this response requires a bit of delving into. The reason I gave the girl next to me was that I had written the essay in one night and sent it...and regretted the sending two minutes later. Admittedly, that is part of the reason: I was in no way proud of this submission, except in the vein that it is the first essay I've written that fits into the genre of essay that is published in the lit journal.

The heart of the matter is a bit deeper. I have never, in all my life, submitted something I was truly proud of to any sort of publishing establishment. Call it a chronic fear of failure, but I've never wanted to take a risk on anything I cared about being rejected. However, even with this reining in of the quality of work I send, I have never truly been rejected. (To be fully truthful: two of my submissions to my high school lit mag this last year were rejected, but I submitted seven or eight pieces, so the rejections don't really count.) Outside of the high school scene, I have had several poems published (and I am not a poet), one essay, I've been invited to publish one other essay (I declined, because it was a pathetic, writhing thing), I've written last-minute essays with no soul that got me thousands of dollars in scholarship money, etc., etc.

I could take this as a vast complement, the idea that work I don't consider up to snuff is being accepted for publication. Yet I have never really felt that way. The concept that lurks in me after an acceptance letter is one of being cheated. I should have to try. Life should not be easy. Even something I love as much as writing should not, I reason, come so easily to someone who is so obviously not a genius. Robbing me of motivation to grow, to excel through hard work, is a crime I cannot forgive.

In essence, my experience in writing has been the opposite of my experience in swimming. In the pool, I gave everything I had, plus more, every single day for four years--more, even. Yet my results were meager: I qualified for state every year, but only barely; I was captain because there were only two senior girls; I was rewarded with some of the closest friends I've ever had (the latter is the greatest reward ever, but it didn't come because of my efforts in the pool). With writing, my half-hearted attempts have been accepted with open arms, even praised.

How wonderous it is to be so soundly rejected. Thank you, Inscape, for validating my firmly held belief that I am mediocre, that I have loads of work to do.

This is such a liberating feeling!